


12:00 AM

by acceloraptor



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: I always get confused between 12 PM and AM, Insomnia, Light Angst, M/M, brief mentions of other members
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 09:57:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7263337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acceloraptor/pseuds/acceloraptor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 12 o' clock, but not the kind McCree looks forward to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

McCree thumbed the digital clock by his bedside table, and blearily shifted his head to look at the time.

_12:00 AM_

_Huh. Would y'look at that._

He sat up, tired and frustrated. It wasn’t like him to have trouble sleeping. Usually, by the time they had successfully infiltrated and took control of a base, or protected intel and weaponry from being stolen, or finished an engagement in all-out combat - point was, McCree was dead-tired by the end of the day, ready to _hit the sack_ , as it were - and usually he slept like a log.

There were always those nights where things never seemed to work out. He tried to suppress the worry that stemmed from needing a level head and a steady hand in battle. It was common routine to be awake at 6:00 AM sharp, and he truly didn’t want to spend the day without a wink of sleep.

Irritated, he swung his legs over the bed with more force than necessary, causing the blanket to unceremoniously slump out of the bed. McCree wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but he sure as hell was done shifting himself into different positions on the bed on the mild hope of miraculously feeling sleepy.

The floor was cold against his bare feet as he made his way out of the room. The team were stationed on the main base in Ilios for a good few months now, enough to have settled and familiarised with the building’s facilities. It was a clean, spacious building, and McCree regarded it as one of the better places he has stayed in. 

 

As he padded through the long corridor, he mentally listed each team member’s room. _Lucio. Reinhardt. Fareeha. Hana -_

He briefly paused in front of Hana’s room, which had a soft light emanating from the door’s gaps. He could hear the muffled tipper-tapper of her rapid typing, no doubt in some competitive game. He shook his head and wondered how she did it. If her day job of protecting civilians wasn't tiring enough, all the while hurling around that giant rabbit machine of hers, the kid spent a lot of her nights gaming whilst animatedly chatting to her fans. She ran on the sugary euphoria of energy drinks and fan donations. 

He couldn’t help but feel a smidge of pride; in stark contrast to the veteran soldiers of Overwatch who were a little worn around the edges, kids such as Hana offered a welcome change of pace.

_Kids, huh? Maybe I should get myself a rocking chair._

McCree’s mind wandered to his own youth, of the years that marked a turning point from the uncertain teenage years to something... resembling adulthood. He was, well, supposedly one was expected to shed their reckless and selfish habits by that time. Event after event life threw at you made sure of that. Unfortunately for him, he was stubborn; Jesse had clung onto his rebellious persona born from a bizarre manifestation of pride. Bruises were as natural as breakfast, and he could recall the faces of every person he had robbed and cheated a deal on.

He was stubborn, but hell, even he had learnt eventually, and McCree was glad for that. 

 

Eventually the corridor opened into a large space that acted as both kitchen and living room. Tucked in the corner was the kitchen area, complete with a fridge, stove, microwave, and anything else one would require to prepare food. 

Usually his team were too busy or exhausted to cook a proper meal, however there were moments when there would be a lull in their missions, which usually called for a decent feast. Winston was surprisingly adept at cooking a range of dishes; his keen enthusiasm for which flavours worked with which meant he had a flair for it. Lena, on the other hand, was banned from the vicinity of the stove, least it catch fire again. The main table was often colourful with a variety of foods of differing culture, many of which he had never seen before. It made for an unconventional but delicious meal.

Sometimes he was given breakfast duty. He cooked the meanest eggs and bacon on toast, and would happily disagree on the impression of the skills, or lack of thereof, required in preparing such a meal.

With food in the mind, McCree made his way towards the fridge. He grabbed the cool metal handle, and the fridge door opened with a satisfying hiss. He squinted as a searing but welcoming warm light shone from within. (Just for kicks, he scrunched his eyes and twisted his mouth in imitation of an Eastwood squint. Even at this hour, he had an image to keep).

After a moment of adjusting, McCree cracked open his eyes a little wider as he tried to take stock. There wasn’t much, but that didn’t surprise him.

First there were the staples; bread, milk, eggs. He spotted a few apples (an apple a day keeps Dr. Ziegler away, not that he’d want that), scattered cans of energy drinks (call him old-fashioned, but he preferred coffee), something like a protein shake (Zarya’s. Do not touch). Pizza from a couple nights ago (it was always the pineapple ones that were left, although Lucio was happy to eat them, bless him), and a brown paper bag with a sticky note written, ‘Do Not Touch!’ (He half suspected it contained Mei’s experiment; there were a couple of scares when preserved bugs were found in the fridge).

All in all, it was pretty dismal. He continued to stare, hoping something would miraculously alight in his currently blank mind. McCree hitched up his shirt slightly as he absentmindedly scratched his stomach. It was softer than he remembered it being, and he let out a resigned grunt. He’d settle for warmed milk.

He grabbed the carton with his metallic hand. Due to the dim light, there was a bit of fumbling as he tried to find the right cupboard which held the cups. 

Next, he placed the cup with its contents in the microwave, and was caught in a blissfully brainless state as he watched it rotate with a dull hum from the machine.

McCree hated not being able to sleep. Time seemed to run agonisingly slow, and he itched to be back in the action with Peacekeeper in hand. In broad daylight, he was a hero who pulled miraculous shots, cheating death time and time again.

At night, he struggled to find the button to open the microwave back up.

After a bit of blind stabbing, he eventually found it. Straining his eyes to see, he carefully felt his way to the kitchen table. It was a sturdy, wooden thing big enough to seat six people. By now, everybody had carved out their own spots to eat. The early risers like Morrison and Zarya were seen quietly eating by the table. Some sat by the smaller table near the couch; late wakers like D.Va and Lucio simply sat on the floor, and wolfed down their breakfast which was spread around them like a small fort. Funnily enough, he and Hanzo shared a similarity in preferring to eat outside, though he left the man alone to his solitude. He suspected Hanzo appreciated quiet mornings as much as he himself did.

 

Minutes ticked by as McCree sat tiredly. He wrapped his hands around the cup, which was pleasantly warm. The room was a void of silence, and he tried not to get too bothered by the lack of talking, bug chirping, leaves rustling, _anything_ -

McCree felt his attention sharpen when he felt the back of his neck prickle. His thoughts instantly went to his revolver, which was neatly tucked in the drawer of his bedside table. Body stiff, he turned his head, saw movement in his peripheral vision - 

Alarmed, he leapt up; there was a loud bang as he bumped his knee on the table.

“Fuck, goddamn,” he managed.

When his eyes stopped tearing up, he finally saw Hanzo standing by the shadows, arms folded, with a somewhat amused look on his face.

“Jesus Christ partner, sometimes I forget how quiet you are. You scared the livin’ hell outta me.” He winced as he rubbed he knee, and wondered how long Hanzo was standing there for.

“You shouldn’t be letting your guard down, even at a main base.” Hanzo was always on the critical, although it lacked bite. Force of habit.

“Yeah, well.” McCree all but gave up on the counter-argument in his current haze of drowsiness and dull pain. So much for calming down with a cup of warm milk. “You up late too, I see.”

Hanzo lowered his head, causing his fringe to cover a part of his eye. “Yes. I’ve been having some trouble finding sleep.” His eyes were dulled; they lost the heavy force which usually accompanied his stares, although the intensity was still no less disconcerting. 

McCree was quiet as he considered. He could recognise the signs of restlessness; dark eyes framed by strands of wayward hair, his shirt was crumpled from much tossing and turning. Jesse would have teased Hanzo of his uncharacteristic dishevelled state, except for the fact that he didn’t want to turn him away - he was honestly quite glad for somebody to talk to. Trying to find sleep in solitude meant a gruelling ordeal of battling an over-active mind. At least with company the thoughts tended to be more forgiving. 

He was also reminded that they didn’t get many chanced to talk, not like this. They worked together enough times to develop a camaraderie that naturally grew from dependancy for survival, but the man remained exceedingly quiet and elusive.

McCree wasn’t one to plea, but he threw out a small thread of hope anyway. “I always find a dead-quiet night drives me insane. Feels unnatural, y’know? Like you’re not quite there.” He didn’t mention how sometimes, he lay in bed with the ringing in his ears, and he didn’t know which was worse, the persistent, dull buzzing or a silence not unlike the quiet after bloodshed.

Hanzo hummed in agreement. “I struggle with the same thing too. I grew tired of trying to read to sleep,” he glanced to the side, “so I came here, at a loss of what to do.”

“Hm. Methods to go to sleep, huh.” 

The distant memory which came to him was not unlike the slow illumination from a morning sun, for it was a fond little thing. 

“When I was a kid, y’know what I did to go to sleep? I would listen to this podcast channel right, kinda like a radio station.”

“Oh?”

“It may surprise you, but I was real fond of Westerns. Cowboys in the Wild West and all that.”

That elicited a snort from Hanzo. They both glanced at the couch, and McCree was more than happy to take it as a sign to sit, so he made his way over. Jesse grinned as he took one end of the couch, and Hanzo took the other.

“But it was a real shame, ‘cus Westerns went outta fashion ages ago, real fast.” He shifted into a more comfortable position, settling his arms on his stomach and resting his feet on the small table usually reserved for food. Hanzo gave him a look, but didn’t comment on it.

“Yet here was this station, dedicated to playin’ these stories of the Wild West. All voice-narrated, with bits of sound effects added in.” He finger-gunned and mimicked a cartoon gunshot he had so often heard, and Hanzo smiled. 

_Well I’ll be._

McCree couldn’t help but feel giddy, like he had accomplished something. Spurred by his attention, he continued.

“Funny thing was, a lot of them were old. Real old. We’re speaking before the year two thousand. So the voices were all crackly, and the sound quality was awful, at times.”

“I didn’t mind though. To me, as a boy, they were the best darned things. I would stay up late just to finish a story. Although,” McCree gave a weak laugh at this, “I often fell asleep before the story finished. At one point or another, they got a tad repetitive. There’s only so much you can write about a man and a gun, I reckon’.”

“I don’t doubt it.” In contrast to his dismissive tone, there was a small smile on his features, and McCree wondered if he was aware of this. After a moment of silence, Hanzo said, “I wonder if you could tell me of one of the stories you listened to. Perhaps they’d work on me as well as they did for you.”

McCree hummed in agreement. “Heck, why not.” He tapped a rhythm on his knee as he tried to bring up a story. It was harder than he expected; he went through a mental equivalent of picking up years-untouched novels that were stacked in some corner, and blowing off the dust. Then, he had to find which novel belonged to which series, the stories jumbling together in their similarity. McCree yearned for a cigar right now, but he was too hesitant to leave the couch, least it break the strange but pleasant moment they were sharing.

 

“Well,” he drawled finally, “the one that comes to mind strongest was a story that meant a lot to me at the time. It was the kind of story that made you think, ‘yeah, this is who I wanna be’, and you would wrap yourself in it, and it felt awful nice, y’know?” 

McCree didn’t know what it was about the quiet of late nights, but it always elicited a wistful side of him. While he wasn’t too hesitant to give away pieces of his life, it was at this hour that he felt most comfortable parting with his closest memories.

Hanzo must have shared his sentiments, as he replied, “I too grew up with stories. However,” he laughed without mirth, “many were folklore stories told to us by our parents. Most had some moral story to them, as a hint for us brothers to stop fighting, or to listen to our parents, or the importance of loyalty to family.” His smile was bitter, “I never liked them. They were always so predictable.”

McCree listened, his attention caught. It wasn’t often Hanzo revealed information about himself, most especially his past. “Any you wouldn’t mind sharin’?”

Hanzo considered. “Perhaps… perhaps next time. They don’t make for the most exciting stories and,” he looked down, hands intertwined, and McCree swore he almost looked abashed, “I’d rather listen to the story you had in mind.”

McCree nodded, and said, “alright, if you’re sure.” He shifted closer to Hanzo, so as to be able to speak in quieter tones. Hanzo stiffened as their shoulders touched, but relaxed after the initial surprise.

After a pause for thought, Jesse began by painting a small country town, in the middle of nowhere. 

“The kinda town where nothing really important happens.”

Predictably, the sleepy town transforms when an outsider arrives by train.

The start of his story was interlaid with pauses as he tried to recall it accurately. Once he got to the complication however, segments of the story flowed more naturally as his mind warmed to it. Hanzo was mostly silent except for the occasional hums of acknowledgement. He may be a prickly little cactus, but he was a fantastic listener.

As time passed, the atmosphere began to warm by their shared body heat in the blanketing darkness. Soon the talking lulled McCree, as if he were recalling a fond memory from his own life. The sensation of his voice rumbling through his body, and Hanzo’s steady weight next to him, were comforting constants that added to his calm.

He was unaware when his relaxation slipped into drowsiness.

“… Jesse?” Hanzo broke the silence when he had stopped talking for a good few seconds.

“Hmm?” He had his eyes closed, head against the back of the couch, which suddenly felt _very_ soft. In a distant corner of his mind he registered how Hanzo almost never called him by his first name. He felt soft disappointment rise, in the abstract way feelings were felt in half-sleep.

“The prisoner. What happened to him?”

McCree recalled something faintly of talking about a prisoner. “Oh, him? Well, see…” It was hard to concentrate when his body felt like it was melting into the couch. He tried to muster the energy to talk, but it resulted in incoherent muttering.

He turned his head with the intention to say to Hanzo, _maybe we should continue this tomorrow_ but instead the motion carried him forward in his unsteady drowsiness. He ended up leaning into the man heavily, his head inelegantly buried in his shirt.

The last thing his mind registered before being engulfed in the folds of sleep was a hand that gently brushed through the back of his head.

 

———

 

McCree could truly tell he was up early, when he saw that the only person seated at the kitchen table was Morrison. A filtered sunlight shone through the windows, catching the dust motes and Morrison’s hair, which shone silver-white. Content after a decent night of sleep, he yawned and stretched his stiff arms. It was only when he tried to sit up that he noticed the blanket placed on him. That elicited a pleasant fuzz in his stomach, and he smiled softly.

Morrison looked around at the sound of McCree getting up. He gave the man a quizzical look - or at least, as far as McCree could tell, what with his visor and all. In response, he gave a little wave as good morning. Morrison reflexively waved back. 

After a pause, the man turned around, shrugged, and went back to eating his cereal.

The room was silent again. McCree idly sat in sleep-induced blankness until he realised; he had a story to finish.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Hanzo bolted awake, feeling as if he were plucked out of a winter ocean. Every rapid breath shook his frame, and his palms ached from the fingernails of his balled hands.

_A sick twist in his gut with the realisation that this was all him, he did it and it was so wrong and everything was so wrong -_

He drew himself into a ball, silently shaking as he tried to even his breathing. The sound of air leaving and entering his nose was accompanied by disconnected thoughts repeating in his head like a broken speaker. 

Eventually, when he could no longer feel his heartbeat as a physical sensation, and when the ensuing silence became too much to bear - he slowly unravelled, and shifted his body to check the time.

_12:00 AM_

Hanzo groaned as he realised how many more hours of the night was left. He was mentally and physically drained, yet in his current shaken state he knew sleep wasn’t an option. He quietly placed his feet on the floor and stood away from the bed, swaying slightly from a disoriented mind that wasn’t quite grounded in reality. The air on his clammy skin was cold; he gritted his teeth, hating the momentary weakness.

Hanzo made his way out of the corridor, leaving but a slight rustle of fabric in his wake. The image of a measured progression was marred by the shirt that stuck to him from the sweat, and his hands which shook ever so slightly. As he neared the living room, his mind unwittingly swung its way to _the American_. He recalled the amusement as he watched the man stumble and make a ruckus in the darkness, so out of his element. He recalled the smell of tobacco that accompanied him like a tell-tale shadow, and the way his hair and stubble stuck out in a style that was almost feral. 

He hadn’t felt so truly relaxed in a long time, and the fact didn’t escape him. Ever since his self-inflicted exile, his life had been a black and white canvas of the glint of steel, the burn of muscle, and the metallic taste of blood. He had shed the blood of his enemies enough times to cleanse his hands of his brother’s blood, over and over. (The blood was still there. It was always there.)

Over the years his feverish resolve softened, the fire dying into a glow which freed him from the sting of anger, to stop fighting and _look_. But old habits died hard; he didn’t miss how the act of making coffee in the morning, or engaging in light-hearted conversation, or relaxing with a movie came so easily to his team mates. He was torn between a simple desire to be part of the atmosphere, and an innate sense of solidarity and pride that urged him to do this _alone_.

Hanzo reasoned that this was why he felt off-kilter with McCree. His first warning sign was how the man had trusted him from the moment they met, and _what kind of a fool does that_. He then continued to astound him with an open-minded friendliness that was downright disconcerting. The second warning sign was how, at some point or another, his muscles reflexively relaxed at the smell of tobacco, and how easy it was to be lulled by his drawl.

The third warning sign was the disappointment he felt as he realised McCree wasn’t there in the living room.

He stood, fighting away the emptiness that started to crawl up his stomach. He hadn’t felt lonely during his years of exile, and he needn't feel it now. For a brief absurd moment he considered knocking on the gunslinger’s door, shaking him awake, just to hear the low rumble of his voice again. 

He quashed the thought, and the warmth that came with it, with ease. Self-dependant survival and utilitarian habits went hand in hand. Mind carefully blank, he instead walked back into his room, picked up the archery gear, and headed outside, all the while ignoring the slight constricting in his chest.

 

It was spring in Ilios, but his breath still left a misty fog. The sky was scattered with stars that almost illuminated the night a dark blue, unusual for a city. Intermittent clouds were highlighted by a half-full moon, giving them an ethereal glow as they passed silently.

Hanzo felt goosebumps form on his bare arms, but continued to walk regardless, almost enjoying the harsh chill. With no particular destination in mind, he stopped by a grove of trees, observing the nutty fruits they bore. Satisfied, he paced a little bit more until he found an ideal spot to shoot from.

He slung his quiver into a more comfortable position before withdrawing an arrow. Steadying his bow, he nocked the arrow, and pulled. There was a familiar burn in his muscles as he did so, feeling the string work against him, the tips of his bow bending ever so slightly. Arm horizontal to the ground, eyes towards the target; he held the tension.

His mind quickly analysed his surroundings. The wind, the visibility. His target. He waited until everything clicked into place - then loosed the arrow. It hit a fruit with a satisfying thump.

 

Using the act of archery to calm his thoughts reminded him of a conversation he had with his brother; of how he could use meditation as a way to confront his thoughts and put his mind to rest. For a short time, he tentatively acted on Genji’s suggestions; sitting cross-legged, back straight. Letting go of any thoughts that might intrude. 

He never made it past the first ten minutes. It always ended with him wrestling with a thought, or an emotion, until he sat up, frustrated. Genji had sighed and said, _you’re supposed to reason with it, not fight it._ They both knew his pride didn’t allow for that.

He drew the next arrow with more force than necessary, causing him to overshoot. He closed his eyes, and breathed. Nocked the next arrow. His concentration radiated a silence that was reflected by his surroundings, giving it a solemn quality.

 

It wasn’t too long until something broke his trance. A soft metallic jingle.

Like the snap of a coiled snake, Hanzo would have spun and fired an arrow - for it not the fact that he recognised what the sound was. Nevertheless, he barely stopped himself form acting on impulse, the action so instinctive from countless practice.

After composing himself, he lowered his bow, and let out an over-exaggerated sigh.

“McCree.”

When he turned around, he couldn’t help but feel pleased at the expression of genuine surprise on Jesse’s face. He was standing just outside the building’s door, marked by the distinct red hue of his poncho which was haphazardly thrown above his night-wear.

All intentions of hiding abandoned, McCree made his way over. Despite his best efforts, Hanzo felt a warmth in knowing that he was awake, after all.

“How in the seven hells did y’know I was there?”

Hanzo glanced at his spurs with a look of mild disdain, “those ridiculous boots are just about as useful as weed on the footpath,” he lifted his chin to meet the man’s eyes, before continuing, “and you’re as elegant as a newly born horse. Making you far noisier than any soldier should be.”

“… Swear I was far enough away though. You got some freaky rabbit ears, partner.” Hanzo could hear the pout in his voice, and belatedly realised he could have been softer on the criticism. He changed the topic to try and make up for it.

“Jesse. You fell asleep before finishing the story yesterday. Do you have any intention to finish it?”

He didn’t think it possible, but McCree’s change from dejection to excitement was instantaneous.

“‘Course I do. I was tryin’ to find you on that. Woke up in bed feelin’ real uneasy, and I couldn’t put my finger on why; was my metal arm acting up, did I need a smoke? And then I realise.” He grinned, all white teeth gleaming in the moonlight, and Hanzo fought not to grin back.

“You’re an old man, McCree, falling asleep before finishing the story like that.” Hanzo realised his mistake the moment the words left his mouth. 

“Hah,” McCree nudged him, and non-too gently; he would have stumbled if he didn’t have solid footing, “you’re one to speak. Ain’t you a year older?”

Hanzo mumbled something in the vicinity of _I wouldn’t know_.

Watching McCree look down triumphantly, it was times like this when he wished he were taller.

“Anyway,” his spirit all but lifted, McCree put a heavy arm around his shoulder, which caused him to reflexively start. Hanzo knew he was the kind of person to place small touches on strangers and friends alike, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t surprised every time it happened.

“As much as I love a good night view, standin’ out here for any longer is gonna haul my ass into one of Mei’s ice sculptures.” He looked at the archer, “I can wait if you wanna practice a bit more though.”

Hanzo gently shrugged off his arm, to deposit the arrow he was currently carrying back into its holder. “No. I’d rather head back, as well.”

McCree grinned. “Jus’ what I wanted to hear.”

As they made their way back, the tension in Hanzo’s muscles began to lift. In between the banter, the warm rumble of his voice and the lingering smell of smoke, the nightmare felt like a distant thing. He wondered if the gunslinger had this calming effect to other people too.

As they stepped into the foyer, McCree said, “I don’t wanna wake nobody with our talkin’. Reckon we could hole up in one of our rooms - either one don’t matter to me. What d’you think?”

Hanzo almost froze. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to put my bow away in its place.”

“Sounds good t’me.”

To his dismay, a new kind of discomfort began to settle in his stomach. Compared to the living room couch, his room felt so much more _private_.

_It doesn’t change anything. It shouldn’t change anything._

McCree started talking again. He caught snippets of the conversation, but did not entirely register it. Distracted, he concentrated on the feeling of his feet hitting the floor.

 

It was when they stood by the doorway when Hanzo was suddenly stricken by an onslaught of nervousness. It was an utterly foreign feeling; in all his life, he had no _reason_ to feel nervous. This was made all the more absurd when the situation was but a simple ‘listen to McCree talk’. Fear and uncertainty bred failure; regardless of the odds, he had always leapt into a fight head on. Yet here he stood frozen, in front of his own room.

_I wasn’t trained to handle this_ , he thought with bafflement. 

McCree did not miss Hanzo’s uncharacteristic hesitation, his sharp eyes contrasting against the light-hearted demeanour. He walked into the room, stretched, yawned. He then sat himself on the bed, back propped against the wall, and gave an easy smile. “I hope y’don’t mind, but I need a second t’gather my thoughts an’ figure out where we left off.”

Hanzo realised he was holding his breath. Willing himself to breathe, he stepped in, closed the door.

His room was spartan, partly because their frequent travel didn’t allow the luxury of keeping many valuables, and also because the shedding from one life to the other meant dropping anything that described what he used to be.

The only object that he kept with him from _before_ was the bow. He unslung his quiver, and placed it against the wall. Next came the wrist guard, which he leaned next to it. Finally was the bow; he gently placed the streamlined weapon on its stand, and observed it for a couple of seconds. He wasn’t the kind to form attachments to objects, but it was the only thing that had remained constant in his transitory life.

By the time he faced towards the bed, he could see McCree’s eyes were closed, his figure dimly highlighted from the ambient light outside.

“Falling asleep already?”

The man cracked an eye open, and huffed. “Naw. S’just restin’ my eyes.”

The bed rustled as he sat next to him, back also against the wall, shoulder to shoulder. Suddenly, a thought struck him.

“McCree. You’re not keeping yourself awake just for my sake, are you?” The thought of being a nuisance made him uncomfortable, his pride nagging at him despite his best efforts.

McCree grinned slyly. “Well, that depends on what you wanna hear.”

The room was silent as he sat under Hanzo’s withering stare for a good few seconds. They were both stubborn, but Hanzo had a stare that easily brought underlings to submission. 

McCree finally rolled his eyes and threw up his hands in defeat. “Alright, fine. I am tired, however,” he winked, “nothing beats hearing the sound of my own voice.”

Hanzo snorted, satisfied with the answer. His initial bout of nervousness had thankfully reduced to a small flutter, easy to ignore. The situation of sharing a moment with another in his room was still foreign to him. However, the person he was sharing this with was Jesse, and the fact in itself was a thing of comfort. Hanzo honestly didn’t know what to make of that. 

For a wistful moment his mind wandered to Genji, and how the teenager had sometimes spent nights away at a friend’s house, most especially after a fight, or to get away from responsibility. At the time, he had labelled it as selfish. Now he realised what a sheltered life he had led.

McCree scratched his stubble as he thought, “correct me if I’m wrong, but we were up to the part where our heroes leapt onto the train, with the prisoners in tow right?”

“Right.” 

Before starting, McCree procured a cigar from one of his pockets and ruminatively chewed on it. (“Don’t worry, I ain’t planning on lightin’ it up.”)

As it turned out, the story was almost finished anyway. He saw why McCree was so attached to it; in contrast to the literature produced during the Omnic war, the relic of the past he had found was light-hearted and energetic as the scenes jumped from one point of action to another. It was over-exaggerated and absurd at parts, but Hanzo eventually admitted it lent a certain quality of charm. Glamour and heroism accompanied the protagonist just as closely as the revolver he carried. 

After the story finished, and a brief moment of swapping impressions, Hanzo asked him about that. “Is that why you keep Peacekeeper with you? Due to it’s age, it is… outclassed by most modern guns.”

McCree chuckled. “Let’s be frank, Hanzo; revolvers are fucking badass. ’S only natural a man like me would keep one.” He hitched his hands on his belt loop, which was currently empty of a certain belt. Hanzo stopped himself from rolling his eyes.

“‘Course, there’s more to it then that. She ain’t got crazy space time power whatsits but here's two things that I’m certain about.”

“One. She’s sturdy as a tank, with an aim so honest, even the world’s holiest saints would look crooked next to her.”

“Two, she pulled me through a lot.” His voice softened then. “I wouldn’t be who I am without her.”

At this he glanced at Hanzo’s bow, and he understood. They sat in silence.

McCree looked at him then, and the sincerity in his eyes was almost painful. “Pardon me for prying but. I’d say your bow is more archaic than mine, by a good shot.”

“You want me to tell you about it.” 

McCree fidgeted under Hanzo’s suddenly cold voice, looking almost apologetic. “Yeah. ‘Course, only if ya want to.”

Hanzo was silent as he thought. The easy way McCree had shared a fond piece of his past was surreal, in a way that he would never expected it to happen. It indicated a certain kind of trust, and he respected that. Despite the gnawing of his exile-conditioned brain ( _foolish, foolish, foolish_ ), it was in this night-darkened room, by their soft mutual breathing - that Hanzo decided he will trust him, too. 

 

He huffed, half laughter and half sigh. “It truly isn’t as exciting as you think it might be.”

“I’d be mighty interested in hearin’ it, all the same.” Indeed, his eyes seemed to have lost some of their sleep, and he was looking at Hanzo with something between apprehension and excitement. He didn’t know whether to find McCree’s constant enthusiasm infuriating or endearing.

Hanzo was silent as he gathered his thoughts. It had been a long time since he had thought about his past. “I will be honest. I didn’t think much of the bow when I was first taught it. Martial arts and swordplay felt a much nobler art,” his smile was self-derisive, “for I was vain, and they caught the attention of people.”

He detailed how, come teenage hood, the attitude of the residents of his estate changed towards him. How they treated him with respect, but in turn expected responsibility. Suddenly the house had felt so much emptier, the walls colder.

In enactment of his own little rebellion, Hanzo left the house.

“Of course, I wasn’t like my brother. At most I was away for an hour or two, during the quiet hours of the night.”

McCree let out a quiet _is that so?_ He and Hanzo stared at the opposite wall, both occupied in their thoughts. Hanzo couldn’t recall the last time he talked for so long.

“I took my bow, for the sword was under custody of my master. I practiced, hidden away in a forest, shooting one arrow after the other. I found the quickest way to rid of my thoughts was through physical exertion.”

“Every time without fail, my anger faded, and my head cleared. I was at peace. That was when I realised, this was more than just a weapon.” 

“Which was why… After my brother— after choosing to leave, I -”

To his horror, he felt his voice catch in his throat. Hanzo curled his hands into a fist, and tried to control himself. He knew that the years of resolute suppression would have caught up to him, eventually; he almost growled in anger that it had to be now, that his weakness should have been unveiled in front of another. He heard rushing in his ears, and tried to fight the sudden onslaught of memories, which were distressingly raw.

_Not now. Not now._ He cast his head to the side, hiding the hints of tears that burned in his eyes. Mind so focused on reigning control over his emotions, he almost didn’t notice the hand that enclosed his wrist, gentle despite its calloused nature.

“It’s okay, y’know. Everythin’s alright.”

The nightmares, waking up alone, shivering; beating his mind into a cold and mechanical mindset, sharp as a blade, telling himself that this is what he needed to do, there was no other way, he had to do this _alone_. And the realisation that he was only human.

For a moment his eyes locked with McCree’s, wide and vulnerable, and it was then that a shared understanding passed between them, of honesty and _trust_. 

A blink, and it was gone. Hanzo lurched, and buried his face into Jesse’s shoulder. He shook silently, hand grabbing the side of his arm almost painfully. If McCree noticed his shoulder dampening, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he placed a hand on his back, rubbing slow circles, talking gentle reassurances. Hanzo didn’t utter a word all the while.

Neither knew how long they stayed like this for, but eventually Hanzo’s breathing softened, body slumped against his hold. McCree sat unmoving, liking the idea of leaving the man alone less and less. He craned his neck to nuzzle his hair, and closed his eyes. He fell asleep to the faint, earthy smell of forests in the night. 

 

———

 

When Hanzo awoke, the first thing he noticed was how _warm_ he was. He shifted, in an attempt to throw the blanket off, only to dimly realise a weight on his chest.

That was how he found McCree, sprawled on his back, who had thrown an arm around him. Hanzo’s mind quickly raced as he tried to analyse the situation. Under different circumstances, he would have been horrified of their close proximity, awkwardly squished in a single bed no less.

Recalling what they shared last night however, a feeling started to settle in his stomach that _it was alright_. His head felt strangely light.

After a pause of hesitation, he lay his head on McCree’s chest, and watched the first hints of sunlight stream through the windows. He listened to the soft beating of his heart, and felt the rise and fall of his frame.

_A new method for meditative calm._ Hanzo laughed inwardly.

Time drifted, not unlike the lazy motion of leaves in a breeze. Before long he could hear McCree’s breath shift from the long draws of sleep to the shallower breathing of consciousness. He felt a hand settle on his hair, which then absentmindedly brushed through it.

He sat up. “Jesse.”

At his name, the smile that broke on McCree’s face was slow but warm, and it was honestly enough to make him lose his current train of thought.

“Hey.”

They stared at each other, both of their eyes were alight with uncertainty. Eventually Hanzo huffed and settled himself back on him, who chuckled lightly. They lay in silence, and Hanzo pointedly ignored the voice at the back of his head which urged him to check the time.

Eventually, McCree spoke. “Hanzo. There’s something important I gotta tell ya.”

He shifted his head to look at the man, eyes widening in mild alarm. “Yes?”

“You fell asleep before finishin’ your story. Guess who’s an old man now?”

His triumphant grin turned into loud guffaws when a pillow was lobbed at his head, with the painful force of an archer’s throw. It caused a tuft of his hair to stick out haphazardly, and Hanzo bit his tongue, waiting to see how long it’d take for him to notice.

Instead he said, “it simply means I’ll have to finish it next time.” 

Hanzo was genuinely surprised when the statement caused Jesse’s ears to blush red. He then thought on his words. _Next time._

He lifted his chin with more confidence than he felt. “Do you have a problem with this?”

Jesse blinked, and grabbed his hand. This time Hanzo didn’t withdraw. “Naw. I’d like that very much.”

They both stared at each other, not quite believing the events that had transpired over the night - until Lena’s loud wake-up call caused them to start.

“Aw, hell.” Muttered Jesse.

Hanzo smirked, and tugged his hand. "Come on," he said.

After all, they had the entirety of a night to share, together.


End file.
